AN GAOḊAL.
923
GIḊ SEO M' AṀARC DÉIĠIONAĊ
air Éirinn a Ċaoiḋ.
Fonn — An Ċúilḟionn.
Giḋ seo mo aṁarc déiġionaċ air Éirinn
Tho' this my sight last on Ireland
a ċaoiḋ,
forever,
Geaḃfad Éire ann gaċ tír a m-béiḋiḋ
I-shall-find Ireland in each country where will-be
cuisle mo ċroiḋe:
(the) pulse (of) my heart
Béiḋ do uċt mar ṫeaċ-ḋídin, a ċéile
Will-be thy bosom like house-shelter, oh partner
mo ċlaon,
(of) my partiality
Is do rosg mar reult-eoluis i n-geur-
And thine eye like (a) star- knowledge in sharp-
ḃruid a g-cian.
sorrow a — far (in strange lands).
Go cluan uaigneaċ fásaiġ, no cuan
To (some) plain lonely, (of) wilderness, or harbor
coiṁiḋeaċ gorg,
strange fierce (unfriendly)
Ann naċ féidir le ar náṁaid ar g-cois-
In not possible with our foe our foot-
céim do lorg,
steps to trace
Eelóċaḋ le mo ċúilḟionn, agus ní
I shall-steal-away with my Coulin * and not
aireoċaiḋ mé an síon
shall feel I the storm
Ċo geur leis an náṁaid, tá do ar n-
As sharp with (as) the enemy (which) is to our
díbirt as díon.
banishing from shelter.
Dearcfad air ór-ḟolt tiuġ, fáinneaċ
I-shall look on (the) gold tresses thick, ringlety
do ċinn,
(of) thy head
Is éistfead le ceoltaiḃ do ċláirsiġe
And I shall- listen to (the) musics (of) thy harp
tá binn,
(which) are melodious
Gan eagla go stróicfeaḋ an Sasan-
Without fear that would tear the English
aċ teann
man bold
Aon teud as do cruit, no aon dlaoiġ
One chord from thy harp, or one tuft
as do ċeann
from thy head.
Glossary
aṁarc, view, ow-ark.
ċroiḋe, heart, chree
ċaoiḋ, ever (time to come), chee.
ḋídin, shelter, yeedh-in.
coiṁiḋeaċ, strange, kui-ee-augh.
aireoċaiḋ, will-feel, air-o-che.
stróicfeaḋ, would-tear, stro-ik-fe.
dlaoiġ, lock of hair, dhulee.
THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN,
Air — The Coulin.
Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam
To the gloom of some desert, or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon shall tear,
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that
hair.
Here-under follows Mr. Henebry’s third piece —
the kind of matter which Mr. Tierney desires to
see in print occasionally. —
Inneosaiḋ mise sgeul díḃ má's sé ḃur
d-toil leis éisteaċt,
Tagairt do's na séiṁ ḟear tá sealad
uainn air fán;
Tógaḋ iad go beusaċ le sgol a's le
léiġin,
Le cliú, le meas, le h-éifeaċt a's le h-
éifinn [?] gan ċáim.
Dá siuḃlóċainn tír na h-Éireann, Seas¬
na le ċéile,
Alban, Van Dieman, an Égipt 'sa
Spáinn;
'Sé bun a's bárr mo sgéil é a's ní raċ¬
fad ag innsin éiṫig,
Naċ ḃ fáġfá a neart ná a d-traonaċt
in aon ḃeirt dearḃraṫar.
Na Conairiḋe, na sár-ḟir, 'siad tá mé
ag áireaṁ,
Cé go ḃ fuilid seal air fán uainn gan
árus gan sult;
'Nois tá na treun-ḟir le crosta fallsa
an t saoġail so,
Faoi ṫarcuisne ag méirlig 's iad d'a n-
éilioṁ gaċ lá.
